


Charging the Hot, Humid Night

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Series: A Summer in Cintra [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, a summer in cintra, lemons ahoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Calanthe agrees to let Eist teach her how to swim.Of course, she does have ulterior motives.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Series: A Summer in Cintra [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658368
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	Charging the Hot, Humid Night

**Author's Note:**

> Three things:
> 
> 1) This title, like the previous story, comes from the song Her Sweet Kiss
> 
> 2) The books (apparently, as I have not read them, but merely skimmed the fandom wiki) mention that Calanthe goes through great efforts to have a child with Eist. I find it a bit hard to reconcile with the version that Jodhi May so brilliantly gave us, so I did a wee bit of fix-it on that. Just FYI.
> 
> 3) idk why but for me, Eist's POV/voice always says "ass", versus Calanthe's "arse". It's not "oh, look, you forgot to choose one or the other". It's literally "oh, look, your brain is broken and absolutely cannot let them both have the same internal spelling because your stupid ass brain is dead set on them having slightly different pronunciations for it." And here we are. Even as it actually bothers me to have two different spellings within the same story, it literally just GNAWS at me to have the same spelling instead. So...I'm sorry, this is how my brain is and I can't reformat it.

Calanthe shivers as she slips off her cloak, but she knows it isn’t from the temperature. Even now, in the dead of night, the summer heat lingers, stifling her lungs with the heavy humidity.

“I’m still not sure why I'm doing this,” she announces, without much conviction.

A few feet away, her husband shucks off his shirt. His hair is a mess from it, making his grin seem even more boyish.

“Because sometimes, you enjoy indulging me,” he answers simply.

Here, alone in the darkness, Calanthe doesn’t hide the smile that twinges her cheeks. It’s true. Just today, Eist had finally realized that his wife didn’t know how to swim—they'd been here, at the banks of this very river, escaping the afternoon heat with Ciri. He had been surprised by this revelation, and then immediately determined to correct it.

Calanthe didn’t argue too vehemently. One could say she didn’t argue at all. Despite her long-lived reputation as a hard-headed and intractable bitch, when it came to her husband, she was rather easily swayed. Though only behind closed doors. A queen had an image to maintain, after all.

She had feigned the slightest amount of resistance, for the sake of a good spar (oh, how Eist could use that tongue of his, both verbally and nonverbally, and how she loved to give it excuse for such exercises). But Eist had made a worthwhile point. _You should be skilled and able in all things, my dear queen. A weakness is still a weakness, no matter how unlikely it could be exploited._

She'd had no choice, after that.

Though she’d never truly considered denying him in the first place. They’d crept out of their own castle, a juvenile thrill that Calanthe hadn’t indulged since her early teen years, quietly giddy as they continued their escape out of the city and into the fields. The whole thing is almost childish and yet she loves it, loves him, loves how he makes everything a game, how he makes her young in ways that no one else can, makes her young in ways that she has never really been before.

She lets her gaze wander down his bare torso, thanking the gods above for the full moon which lets very little hide in shadow. He turns slightly, opening his arms in a gesture of welcome, which only highlights the muscled lines of his neck and shoulders. _See anything you like?_

She chuckles soundlessly as she unclasps the scabbard from her hip (because yes, she may be childish right now, but she isn’t foolish, isn’t ever unaware of the potential danger lurking in every shadow, at every turn). He knows the answer to his unspoken question—always knows, has always known—and that brings another flush of warmth to her chest. As a young girl, she’d listened to bard’s tales of courtly love and had known it was never for her, and for that, she is grateful. Eist lets her be both soft and ravenous, both forceful and pliant, conqueror and conquered, and never pretends as if such dichotomies are anything but perfectly natural.

She never had this with Roegner. He was convenient, willing to marry a harpy of a queen, and good looking on top of that. He gave her Pavetta ( _and gave her away just as quickly, the fucking idiot_ ), and proved a useful companion in life. She had mourned his death, but not in the way wives were supposed to. He had been a friend, in the end. And a husband, in all ways. But never a lover.

Eist is a different matter. Sometimes she forgets that they are truly married. It isn’t supposed to still feel this way, she thinks sometimes. The longing and the fire and the satisfaction that only builds more hunger. It isn’t always pretty (it’s never pretty, not in the way of ballads and poetry), but it is real, so real that it’s palpable, easily felt and identified.

Calanthe likes straightforward things. Things that do not have to be questioned or tender-footed about. As inexplicable as their connection is—as it has always been—it has always been without question. She’s never had to wonder how she truly felt about him, never had to wonder if he felt the same. It is direct, and searing.

And despite the heaviness of summer’s heat, she welcomes the flames.

Eist is shifting closer, coming behind her to unlace the stays of her dress. The air is so thick that she can feel every move he makes, the way his head dips closer to her neck, the push of his breath against her skin causing her to shiver again. The stays are unlaced and his hands move to her shoulders, slowly pushing the dress off. His hands are on her hips, pulling her closer, the heat of his body easily slipping through the linen of her undergarments.

She rolls her head back, enjoys the solidness of his frame for a beat before quietly pointing out, “Somehow I don’t think this is part of the lesson.”

Even without seeing his expression, she can feel his grin. She moves away, just enough to be out of reach, just enough to tease, and removes her corset. Her grin deepens at his gaze, knowing full well that her chemise hides little beneath its nearly-sheer fabric. It is perfect for the summer weather, but she can admit that when she’d redressed this afternoon, she’d chosen it specifically for this moment.

She chose almost every facet of her ensemble specifically for tonight. Had her hair braided and pinned up, leaving her neck open for bites and kisses, had forgone any undergarments beyond her chemise and corset and hose, for easier access on her husband’s behalf (lucky man, to have such a considerate wife, she thought), had selected the lightest chemise she had so that nothing would stay hidden for long, between the water and the moonlight.

She sits, rather pleased by the fact that her husband hasn’t moved, hasn’t stopped staring, and turns her attention to her hosiery. Once her legs are bare, she looks up expectantly, feigning absolute innocence.

“Are you going in like that?” She nods slightly, towards his still mostly-dressed body. So far, he’s only removed his shirt and shoes. With wide eyes, she adds, “Seems rather a lot, compared to what you wore this afternoon.”

He laughs at that. This afternoon, he’d stripped down to his breeches to swim with Ciri—and he remembers all too easily how much his wife enjoyed the sight. She’d been rather _specific_ in how much she’d enjoyed it, later, when they’d retired to their chambers alone, after handing Ciri off to her nursemaid for her nap. His hands ache with the memory of Calanthe’s hips between them, rocking and swiveling as she panted and huffed above him, fingers pressing into his chest with urgency and longing.

She knows exactly where his mind has gone. Even in the shadowy darkness of the trees around her, that wolf-like grin is clear as day. She sits further back with a theatrical slowness, the intent behind her actions equally clear: _Give me a show, Eist Tuirseach._

He gladly obliges. He thinks, yet again, how nothing truly prepared him for the woman that is his wife. Despite the instant sparks between them, despite the years of knowing each other as admiring comrades in various wars and diplomatic ventures, he had half-feared that once the flirtation became physical reality, its potency would fade. Wasn’t that usually the way of things? Reality marred the fantasy, anticipation became apathy, desire became duty, lust became tolerance—he had seen it dozens of times over in his life, enough to assume it was simply the way of things.

He should have known that _the way of things_ was never the way Calanthe did things. Even now, her dark eyes are glittering with lust, so open and bold that it makes his chest tighten. If anything, their nearly-three years together has only deepened the fire between them, despite the daily wear of their shared life.

Her legs shift wider apart, and he knows that if he slipped a hand between those thighs, he’d already find her wet and wanting. He remembers the first time he laid eyes upon the Lioness of Cintra, the way every inch of his skin felt aflame, like a giant pin-prick from the heavens. It seems a miracle that he somehow has the same power over her in turn.

And because he knows, beyond all doubt, that he does have that same power, he uses it to full effect. Leisurely tugging the laces of his pants, watching the way her eyes stay on his hands, wide and rapt. Smiling smugly as he pushes them further down, knowing she can see just how much she’s already affecting him, even through the fabric of his linen breeches. The tension around her smirking mouth vanishes, she’s almost slack-jawed with want as her eyes slowly travel up his body, and he stifles a laugh—she always acts as if she’s never seen him before, as if every time is the first time, as if he’s some kind of wonder to behold. It’s rather nice, truth be told.

It’s not the only _rather nice_ thing about his current vision. His wife’s chemise is tantalizingly thin; he can see the peaks of her nipples through the fabric, the heavy, steady heave of her breathing, the flush of her chest rising past the material, up to her neck. If he were to take just a few steps closer, she’d pull him down to her, into her, as shaking and needy as an opium eater.

But they really are here for a reason. And sometimes, it is good to delay gratification.

So he steps forward, offering his hand, “Come. I’ll help you in.”

She blinks, hard, as if waking from a dream. She genuinely forgot why they were here, he realizes with a small hum of amusement.

And she had, a little. Calanthe realizes now that until this moment, it has all been rather theoretical. Yes, she would let Eist teach her to swim, knowing it would devolve into an entirely different activity. But now the moment is here and she is _actually_ going to have to swim. Her stomach twitters uneasily at the dark waters, quietly rippling under the light breeze and the full moon.

Her throat tightens slightly as she rises to her feet. The water isn’t too deep; heavens knows she’s waded through streams on many a military campaign. But this is different.

For all her jokes and suggestively arching brows, she has every intention of actually learning. He’s always a sight to behold when he’s in the water, powerful and self-assured, sleek and quick. And this afternoon, when he’d laid out his argument for her need to learn (laying her out along with it, quite wonderfully), his eyes had shone with delighted fervor. He wanted this, she knew. Wanted this to be a thing shared between them. And so she wants it, too.

This is part of him, part of his identity and his heritage. She needs it to be part of her, too. For him, as much as for herself. But with this sense of importance comes a wave of anxiety, a fear that she’ll take too long to learn, she’ll frustrate him, he’ll give up before she can properly do it. That, in the end, her worst fears just might come true—she’ll be lesser, in his eyes.

She loves the way he looks at her. It was, in all honesty, the first thing she noticed about him. The thought of it ever changing causes near-panic.

Eist must sense her sudden shift in emotion, because he keeps her left hand tenderly clasped in his, shifting slightly behind her so that his right arm can wrap lightly around her waist, right hand reassuringly resting against her hip.

“Mind the rocks, they’re slippery,” he says, voice lined with gentle care.

“I’ve walked over wet rocks before, arsehole,” she informs him with a huff. Still, she gingerly steps into the riverbed, taking a moment to let her feet adjust to the change in terrain before wading further in. Eist is still with her, still steadying her, and she’s both grateful and frustrated—frustrated that he assumes she still needs the constant support, and grateful because yes, his assumption is right, even if she won’t admit it.

The feeling of her wet chemise clinging to her legs isn’t a welcome one. It feels suffocating, sticky and stifling, even more so than the humid, hot air. It does nothing to help the anxious energy rattling just below her lungs.

Eist is even closer now, practically pressing his body into hers as his grip around her waist tightens, head bowing to whisper warmly, “I’ve got you.”

Again, she is both grateful for the reassurance and pissed that he thinks she’s weak enough to need it (and even more pissed to know she _is_ weak enough to need it).

They move more slowly now, reaching the middle of the river. The rocks here are larger, easier to stand on. The water that reaches Eist’s ribs laps around her breasts, and she shivers again.

“Now, we’ll start with floating,” he assumes a rather unaffected air, fully in teaching mode. “The truth is, it’s just like anything else. Your body knows what to do, if you just relax and trust it.”

She fights back a risqué quip, lips twisting into a smirk. Still, he senses what she didn’t say, merely squeezing her hip in silent reprimand: _Pay attention, woman_.

“If you keep your muscles loose, you’ll be able to float easily enough. And staying above water is half the battle when it comes to swimming. Keep your arms out at your sides…”

His hands slip around her ribcage, coming up to trace the undersides of her arms, gently moving them to form a T. She leans back, fully pressed against his chest. He gives her a small, quick kiss on her temple, but doesn’t indulge her further. “And don’t try to keep your legs together.”

She hums at that. Keeping her legs together around this man has never really been a possibility, anyways.

“Calanthe,” he warns.

“I _am_ listening,” she retorts, in response to the unspoken accusation in his tone. Still, she pushes further back with her hips, against the hardness she can feel, even with the water and layers of fabric between them. “I am perfectly capable of multi-tasking, as you should well know by now.”

He nuzzles into her again, his breath heavy against her ear, “The sooner you finish the lesson, the sooner we can celebrate.”

Well, incentive enough, she decides. She readjusts her posture to stand straightly again.

“Now,” his hands are shifting again, holding her steady. “I’m going to lift your feet…”

It’s even easier with the water to help him, left arm cradling around her legs, shifting her entire body so that he’s holding her in his arms completely. He feels the way she stiffens, before letting herself relax again. He feels a flash of pride. She’s always been a quick study.

Though she’s still curled into him, left arm still wrapped around his shoulder, right hand still pressed against his chest. She looks up, corner of her mouth hooking into a grin as she slowly shifts, turning to fully point her chest to the sky, arms extending back into the T shape that he’d shown her.

Granted, her eagerness might be tinged by the fact that her chemise is now soaked and completely see-through, and her current position leaves _very_ little to the imagination, and she knows it (and part of him wants to laugh at this woman, at her need to tease, to have some small victory even in a moment like this, as if she hasn’t already proven a thousand times just what sway she holds over him). He lets his arms sink lower, slowly drifting away from holding her completely, letting her body take over the responsibility of floating on its own.

She blinks, quickly, then lets her muscle go slack again. She truly understands his instruction from earlier—pushing her feet further apart, even slightly, makes it easier to find this odd sense of horizontal balance. Her hips sink further, but his hand gently pushes them up again, righting the balance once more.

“Perfection,” he says. His smile informs her that he isn’t talking about her floating abilities at all. His hands come up, one between her shoulder blades, one at the backs of her thighs, and he takes a moment to take a long, lingering look down the length of her body.

It’s hard to feel fear or worry when the man who knows exactly how to reduce your skin to ashes is looking at you like he’s dying of thirst and you are his first drink of water in ages.

Calanthe flounders a bit as she tries to get back to her feet, but her husband easily helps her. She’s suddenly a bit breathless, laughing slightly at the unexpected wash of delight that comes from conquering something new, even something as miniscule and ridiculous as this.

They practice a few more times. She only goes under once, when he gingerly pushes her further away from him, still keeping her anchored with his hand on her calf, but she regains her equilibrium and earns a grin that sets her lungs aflame all over again.

“Now, swimming.” He shifts so that he is firmly behind her again, hands on her forearms, directing her movements. “Imagine your hands are drawing a broadhead.”

He demonstrates, pushing her arms together so that they create one single point, then pushing them out and apart like the barbed tines of an arrowhead. She grins at the example, knowing he chose a weaponlike analogy specifically for her. It makes sense. Like an arrow, the movement would help one slice through the water with minimal resistance.

She nods, indicating that she understands. He directs her arms, shows her how to push forward and bring them together again. The movement finds an easy rhythm in the repetition, and Calanthe can’t help but feel a swell of satisfaction in knowing that even in this, their bodies find synch almost effortlessly.

She’s never fucked in a river, she thinks idly. A bath several times, once beside the rolling sea. But never in a river. It would be worth experiencing. Eist would happily oblige, she knows—though she’d known their personalities were well suited long before consummating their relationship, she had been thoroughly and delightfully surprised at just how adventurous her lover was. The Sea Hound of Skellige was basically an eager, playful puppy, when it came to such things. _Anything once_ , he’d say with a wink.

It takes a moment for her lust-addled brain to register that Eist has stopped moving her arms. His hands are on her hips again, pulling her even closer, though until now she’d thought it impossible for their bodies to press any more tightly together.

“Woman,” he breathes, dipping his head to drag his mouth down the curve of her neck. “You are impossible.”

“I have been a model student,” she returns primly. She’s not sure how he knew she’d become distracted (not that it’s hard to divine her thoughts, she can admit—they’re pretty singular whenever she’s alone with him). She pushes, just a little more, letting her voice go breathy with feigned virginal naiveté, “Perhaps my instructor is merely projecting his _own_ lecherous desires onto my perfectly innocent actions.”

He laughs at that, quick and sharp, surprised and delighted by how well she delivers the line. She dips her head, smirking smugly. His fingers flex deeper into her hips and she can’t stop the small sigh that escapes.

Then, Eist is no longer stitched to her side. He slips away, sliding further into the water, taking easy, strong strokes of his arm to widen the distance between them. Her pulse quickens, suddenly feeling off-balance and far too vulnerable to the current’s slow and heavy pull.

He stops, rising to his full height again. He reaches for her.

“I’m assuming you don’t want me to wade over,” she deadpans, trying to hide her nerves.

He chuckles in agreement. “Just push off with your feet. Move your arms like I taught you. We’ll see how well you paid attention.”

“You would let me drown, just to prove a point?”

“You won’t drown, Calanthe. Push off.”

“I, a good and loving wife, punished for wanting my husband so.” She’s half-teasing, fully stalling. Trying to push down the nerves.

He knows the best way to get results is to anger her. “Oh, shut up and push off, woman.”

Her lips press into a firm, hard line. She’ll learn to swim, just so she can come over and strangle him. He doesn’t doubt her determination, not one bit.

She slowly sinks further into the water, bending her knees and letting her feet find a solid grip on the rock before pushing off. She nearly dunks under, but remembers to kick her feet and it gives her enough buoyancy to move forward, although shakily and slowly. It takes every ounce of will to keep her muscles from going too tense, but if there’s anything she has in spades, it’s sheer determination.

Eist moves closer, taking her hands in his own and fully pulling her into him. “See? Told you that you wouldn’t drown.”

She silences his smugness with a kiss, sharp and quick, her hand slipping to the back of his neck and holding him there. His blood spikes and his head spins, but he never loses his smirk. She can feel it, he knows—her tongue is pushing past his teeth with a punishing forcefulness, determined to remove his smugness through any means necessary, either lust or lack of oxygen.

He merely pushes further back into the water, holding her waist so that her body can float over his. She makes a small sound of surprise into his mouth, her grip around him tightening in response.

It feels almost magical, Calanthe thinks, the weightless gliding. She better understands why he loves the water so much.

Soon he rights them, bringing them both to their feet again, grinning anew at his wife’s small growl of displeasure at how it breaks their kiss as well.

“A few more tries,” he informs her, the rest of his promise unspoken but still plain: _Then we’ll enjoy the rest of the evening, however you wish._

She licks her lips, giving a small, resolute nod of agreement. It is in that moment that Eist realizes his wife is truly invested in learning how to swim. He had only been half-joking earlier, when he’d said that she was indulging him. She’s always been one for drawn-out games and long seductions; he had assumed she knew it was an excuse to get him back to the river to do all the things she couldn’t do with their granddaughter present. And even with her listening to his instructions and following along, he had suspected it was all done with a patronizing patience, merely playing the part to make him happy.

She does that, sometimes. And it doesn’t upset him. If anything, it reassures him of her love. The Lioness of Cintra does not do a single thing that she doesn’t want (sometimes nearly to the point of death itself), and yet, sometimes, she will do things simply because she knows they will bring him joy. Does them because she wants to make him smile, wants to make him feel seen and heard, wants him to understand that she respects him, even when she doesn’t always understand the allure of some of his passions or interests. She’d rather despised dancing until he came along, until she realized it was another way to drive him wild, and then she’d enlisted the help of an instructor, surprising him at some otherwise-tedious court affair with her skillful waltz. She’d beamed the rest of the night, preening like the cat who’d got the cream (though she’d gotten a lot more, later that night), all because she knew it had delighted him.

And truth be told, he was willing to accept this scenario as a similar experience. She’d learn to splash about enough to satisfy him, then would get to satisfy herself in turn afterwards.

But now he can see the determined set of her brow and he realizes that she’s not going to stop until she’s as expert a swimmer as he is. It isn’t entirely about delighting him, or even impressing him. She wants to excel, wants to conquer, wants to prove she’s his match in every way. She knows her seafaring husband takes all things water-related rather seriously, and she has decided to take it seriously as well.

He can’t help himself. He takes her face in his hand and kisses her right between those furrowed brows.

She blinks, obviously confused by the sudden rush of affection. Still, her hands lightly clasp around his wrists, keeping him there.

Eist is smiling down at her with such syrupy-warm affection that her chest tightens with longing. She knows that look. Gods above, she spends so much of her time chasing it, being both refilled and completely emptied by it, a constant source of wonder and delight. She’s not sure any other soul alive has looked at her like that, and she’s never really certain what she does to inspire it—she just knows she wants it, always, from him.

“Again?” He asks, already certain of the answer. She nods, barely. She releases his wrists and he turns to dive beneath the surface, swimming further downstream. This time, there is a wider gap between them. Calanthe’s dark eyes notice as well, flitting back to him with the lightest hint of unease.

True to form, she takes one steadying breath and pushes off. She’s learned from the last attempt—this time, there is more force behind her legs, her arms are stronger, straighter. She doesn’t falter when the water splashes against her face, she pushes harder when her chemise attempts to tangle around her knees. The extra distance means that she has to repeat the movement of her arms, kicking her legs harder and longer. But she makes it, easily curling into him once his hands grab her upper arms, pulling her closer.

“A natural,” he decrees, kissing the side of her head.

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t need constant praise; I’m not a child.”

“You certainly aren’t,” he agrees warmly. His hand starts at her knee, firmly tracing its way up the outer curve of her hip. This earns him a dark grin. The linen beneath his fingertips reminds him, “Would it be easier, if you swam without the chemise?”

Now her grin blossoms into pure wicked knowing, one brow arching. “For me, perhaps. For you, I should hope it would be harder.”

Her hand trails over the bulge in his breeches, punctuating her point (as if he didn’t know exactly what she’d meant, lecherous woman with her one-track mind).

“I’m serious. The length is probably hindering your legs.”

She can’t argue with that. She lets her feet find purchase on the stones below, fumbling slightly with the soaking wet tie at her collarbone. It’s heavy from the water, sticking to her skin, and Eist gladly helps her pull it over her head. She takes it from him, turning to wade back to shore. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know her husband is watching her slowly rise from the water with rapt attention. So maybe (just maybe, but who could say for certain?), she walks further ashore than necessary, so that more of her body is on display—and maybe, just maybe, she leans forward a little more than necessary as she tosses the sopping wet garment onto the bank.

Eist’s low noise behind her informs her that she has achieved her objective. She doesn’t even try to hide her smug smirk as she turns back to him, waiting a beat so that he can simply see her in the moonlight.

She’s had plenty of lovers—before Roegner, after him, before Eist. There have been plenty who saw the scars on her body and wondered at them, plenty who found them erotic enough, a few who even fetishized them. But Eist always looks at them with such softness—not pity, but genuine pride, as if he truly understands all she has endured to live, to have those wounds heal enough to become marks on her skin, slick and shiny reminders of her own ability to survive.

The webbed, jellyfish-like mark on her left shoulder, white and thick—her wound from the Battle of Hochebuz, a near-miss from a heavy-tipped spear that should have severed her head from her body entirely. Sometimes, it still aches, leaving her unable to fully lift her arm over her head.

The mottled slashes around her hips, smaller, less noticeable—the first time she realized her chainmail was no match against being dragged through a battlefield, her foot caught in the stirrup as her clearly-not-battle-ready horse tore through the melee with abandon. She may or may not have gifted that skittish horse to an overzealous and unwelcome suitor. He may or may not have suffered a similar fate in turn.

The series of nicks on her upper arms, from various blades, and the newer punctures near the crook of her elbow—she’s been training a new falcon and it didn’t quite land where it was supposed to, desperately clawing into her arm to find balance. She knows that she’s lucky it didn’t stab her in the face with its sharp beak.

The ghostly-pale marks on her stomach, shiny and compressed—from carrying Pavetta, a battle in itself that she’d never been truly prepared for.

Then, just below, the thick sickle-curve at the base of her abdomen, still purple-red and angry looking, after nearly two decades—her final scar from pregnancy, when they’d cut Pavetta from her body. At that point, she’d been so delirious with pain and panic that she had been willing to make the cuts herself. The physical proof of why she’d been so barren, afterwards.

The court physician had decreed no more children, after Pavetta. Roegner hadn’t cared either way, and Calanthe had been relieved. She’d hated how pregnancy had made her so vulnerable, in so many ways. The trauma of birth, the helplessness of it all, had been more than enough on the first go-round.

Still, she knows the rumors. The way people whisper at court, about how desperate she is to create a child with Eist. Seeing him with Ciri, she knows that he would be a good father. He is a good father now, to Pavetta. But she doesn’t truly feel any regret for denying him the chance with a child of his own blood—and he’s never been keen towards it, which helps.

Still, people talk. It benefits her, so Calanthe allows it. Let them think that her sole reason for constantly dragging her husband back to bed is purely for the creation of an heir. Let them think that all her potions and concoctions are to increase fertility, rather than prevent it. It is better to think your queen is determined to leave the country with a strong and certain line of succession, rather than realize she just really enjoys fucking her consort every which way and round again.

The sacrifices one must make for crown and country, she thinks with a smirk. Though the sight of her husband, staring up at her in a soft, lustful wonder, does not particularly inspire thoughts of self-denial.

And it is that softness in his gaze that makes her ravenous. He can be so pliant, so willing when she needs to be in control, just as easily as he can take control himself. Even now, she knows that he would give her anything she needed, half the time before she even asked for it. Her heart swells and her pulse rises with the certainty of it.

She takes a few steps back into the current, still grinning at the way Eist nearly groans in pity, mourning how the deeper water hides more of her from him. Once there’s less distance between them, she sinks further down, pushing against the rocks to slice through the water towards him, face set in a look of unmistakable intent.

She’s like a saltwater crocodile, Eist thinks, sharp and swift, all teeth and ferocity. Her eyes are glittering as her hands slide over his shoulders, legs wrapping around his hips as their bare chests press together. She gives a small, breathless chuckle, obviously pleased with herself. He pretends not to notice the way her hips rock with the slow pull of the current, pressing against his cock just enough to truly be felt, just enough to stir it further.

“Again?” She breaths, eyebrow arching questioningly. His hands are at the curve of her waist, singing silent hymns of praise for how smooth and slick her skin feels beneath his hands, how delicious she feels beneath the water.

He nods, unable to form a verbal response. Her crocodile grin widens, brighter than the moon overhead. She leans back, just slightly, pushing her hips further into his while giving his hands better access to her breasts, which he gladly takes. They’re practically weightless in the water, soft and pliable under his fingers, which flex and massage into the tender flesh. She tilts her head back and sighs, her own fingers digging into his shoulders in encouragement.

Then she shifts, bringing her gaze back to his. He gets the distinct feeling that somehow, he has unknowingly entered a trap.

“You know, in the interest of fairness,” her tone is lined with such teasing that his suspicion becomes certainty. Her right hand leaves his shoulder, slipping down to tug at the tie to his breeches, “You should lose these.”

“Should I?”

She hums in affirmation, face as stoic as ever, as if she doesn’t really care either way. “It doesn’t seem right, if the instructor doesn’t endure the same conditions as the student.”

He gives a huff of amusement at that. “Or, perhaps, it could be a source of incentive for a wayward pupil.”

She bats her eyes, feigning confusion and mild indignation. “Why, I’ve only done everything you asked. If we’re going to talk about incentives, then it’s high time I was rewarded for my exemplary behavior.”

He merely kisses her.

“Eist.”

“You are more than welcome to _earn_ your way into my pants.”

This is not the answer she wanted, because her hand goes back to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer so that she can whisper hotly in his ear, “Eist Tuirseach, if you want to see truly wayward behavior, refuse me again. I shall _absolutely_ retaliate.”

There’s a growl in her tone, punctuated by the actual nip of her teeth on his earlobe. He realizes that she’s practically shaking in his arms. In all his encounters and escapades, he’s never had a woman so desperately determined to have his breeches off.

He laughs, though it’s mainly out of sheer wonder at his own brilliant luck.

Calanthe feels a spike of irritation at his reaction. Granted, she’s less patient right now, a bit worn around the edges from the nerves surrounding this entire scenario, though she’s tried her best not to let it affect her. She feels, both literally and figuratively, out of her depth, and she wants to correct the balance in some small way.

“ _Eist_ ,” she pushes her frustration into that single word, weighing it down with an edge of threat.

And despite the warning, he pushes his luck, knowing whatever retaliation she pursues will be far more of a reward than a punishment. He gently disengages from the grasps of her arms and her legs—quickly, before she can realize enough to stop it—and dives under, coming up to take a few more strong-armed strokes further down the river.

His wife gives a little stifled shriek of frustration, and he can feel the searing heat of her glare long before he turns to look at her again. He stands up, holding up his hands in a gesture of welcome.

“Come get them, dear queen.”

She’s scowling like a petulant child now, but she’ll play the game to the teeth, he knows. He watches the water rippling around her shoulders as she sets them in a determined stance, judging the distance between them. It’s three times as far as she’s swam before. She can do it, he knows—she _will_ do it, he has no doubt. The lion may roar, but it is the lioness who hunts, who almost always catches her prey.

For a moment, Calanthe truly considers stomping her way back to shore. Taking care of the growing tension in her hips herself—heavens knows she’s ended Eist’s teasing that way before, knowing he’ll never be able to stop himself from coming forward, from finishing what her hand starts—and reminding him that when she gives a command, she expects it to be filled, or _there will be consequences_.

But as usual, it’s his smile that undoes her. His hair is soaking wet, dripping and curling even more from the heat, looking even more boyish than usual. The moon creates breathtaking shadows around his shoulders, highlighting the muscles made through years of hauling sails and wielding swords, his own skin marked with bruises and battle scars. She doesn’t want to wait for him to come join her on the shore. And she doesn’t want him to win, doesn’t want to end this night without proving that she _can_ do this, she can swim better than any Skelligen whore, can meet him at every level and beat him at every game, if she puts her mind to it.

So she does. Anger fuels her, makes it easier to push through the water with arms and legs, stomach coiling in a mixture of righteous indignation and undeniable desire as she moves closer to her target.

“I should have your head,” she snaps, still feeling bratty despite his proud smile.

“All yours.” His grin deepens as he lifts her hips and grinds her against his cock, arching his brow at the double entendre.

Her lungs pulse with the desire to laugh, but she clutches her anger more tightly. He’s still wearing those damnable breeches, the rough fabric rubbing against her skin, only sending more sparks through her hips and doing not to hide the hardness beneath that makes her own body melt in response.

She forces her mouth to stay in a thin line as her hands fumble underwater, tugging none-too-gently at the laces of his breeches and pushing them past his hips.

“Calanthe, we’re not—”

“I _told_ you,” she uses one arm to push against his shoulders, lifting herself further up so that her other hand can guide him inside her. She wraps her legs fully around his hips and tightens, bringing them further together so forcefully that they both gasp. “If you refused—”

Her words are cut short by her own sharp intake of breath, the rest already forgotten as she rolls her hips and pushes harder. She realizes that the lovely magical weightless feeling of the water also affects her ability to truly put weight into her movements. It is not a particularly welcome realization.

His hands are on her hips, gently helping her rock as his head tilts forward, forehead resting against hers. He doesn’t try to stop her as he points out breathlessly, “It will be easier if we’re in shallower water.”

“Expert at fucking in large bodies of water, are we?” She knows she’s practically panting now. The water is lapping frenetically around them from the constant rise and fall of her chest as she slides up and down, closing her eyes tightly at the sensation (she can feel the water already leeching away the slickness inside her, making it harder, less pleasurable, but she doesn’t care enough to stop—for whatever reason, she needs this, needs to claim him in his natural habitat, needs to prove something, to both of them).

“I’d wager I have more experience at it than you, yes.” This is not the answer that will make her happy, he’s well aware. But this is vastly different from the times they’ve skidded and splashed around in the queen’s private bath, with its firm ceramic bottom and easily-reachable sides to hold on to, without a current and with far more light to see each other, if anything should happen. Yet he’s still helping her, still letting his hands steady her, lifting her, pulling her hips back into him. Even as he argues with her, he doesn’t deny her, and the irony isn’t lost on him in the least.

“Not for long,” she decrees, and now, he has to laugh in incredulity. Was there ever a more infuriatingly competitive woman, in all the world?

“How exactly does that work?” He teases.

He has a point, she realizes. Regardless of how many times they may come back here to fuck in the river, his counter will still be higher.

Still, never one to concede a point of pride, she puffs, “Maybe I’ll find someone else to bring along, while you’re busy playing pirate of the bloody seven seas. Maybe I’ll just—”

Her empty threats are swallowed by his mouth, covering hers with a low growl. Still, she makes her point with her tongue, with her teeth that bite his bottom lip. _I’m past the point of teasing, Eist. And I have waited long enough—just give me what I want._

His hands slip further down, grabbing her ass and pulling her into a particularly hard thrust. She cries out, hands fluttering to clutch at his hair, tugging just enough to pull him back, so that his gaze can fully meet hers.

Half-dumb from the intensity of her eyes, he thinks of all the tales of sirens he has heard. They always seemed so pliant, so soft and whisperingly coy, a gentle dream of sorts. This thing is all teeth and talons and even sharper tongue, direct and demanding, overwhelming like the sea during a squall, beyond any form of command or control. She is the true creature sailors should fear, the thing that would drag a man to dark depths without ever even blinking. And gods help him, he adores her for it.

As often is the case, he isn’t entirely sure for her motivation behind this current course of action. Whatever it is, she needs it.

Perhaps she is more of a siren than he first realized—because he finds himself unable to resist the call, unable to do anything but succumb.

He pulls her away, so sharply that she gives a small sound of dismay at the sudden loss of him inside her. He rises to his feet and she stares up at him, slightly bewildered, as if perhaps she fears that she’s somehow crossed a line. He brings her in closer again, her chest pressing against his as he places a line of kisses down the curve of her neck. She relaxes, understanding that it’s a change of pace, not a full stop.

“At least let me actually take them off,” he whispers, tone tinged with amusement. She shifts, looking up at him with a baleful glance.

“If you had taken them off when I told you, this wouldn’t be an issue,” she points out, rather unnecessarily. Still, she steps back, giving him more room to maneuver out of the breeches.

“Yes, well, lesson learned,” he concedes easily. The breeches are removed and tossed back onto the rocks at the edge of the river.

She smirks at that. Still, she waits.

“How comfortable are you with floating?” He asks, his gaze as serious as his tone.

She blinks, considers. He can see her mind piecing together the information, most likely correctly guessing his intent. “I could manage.”

In that moment, he sees how desperate she is to please. It’s almost as if she’s an entirely different creature than the thing that existed a few moments ago.

“I’m not going to have you drown on me,” he informs her.

Now she gives a grin and a slight tilt of her head. _Oh, but what a way to go…_

He flicks his gaze heavenward. This woman shall be the death of him, with her devious ways. But then again, what a way to go.

He looks around, searching for a solution. Yes, she was doing quite well with her lessons, but her lack of experience in the water could prove dangerous, and he isn’t willing to risk it, risk _her_.

She watches him, feeling a familiar prickle up her spine. So many women at court who had supposedly been the object of Eist’s affection (a game, she knows, has always known, a way to keep too many tongues wagging about the way he looked at her) had often rolled their eyes at the thought of actually sharing a life with a man of the sea, though they would have happily bedded him for a night. But truth be told, his seafaring ways have proven quite useful in his role as lover—out at sea, one must be inventive, must work with what one has, and his creativity has been put to pleasurable use more than once over the past three years.

“Come along,” he says, turning away slightly and swimming further downstream and towards the opposite shore, where the birchwood trees cast deeper shadows over the water. Had she been alone, Calanthe might have been wary of such darkness. Instead, she merely waits for him to stop, to turn back to her and hold out his hands. She swims to him, suddenly realizing that her lessons have taken more use of her muscles than she’d known at the time. Thankfully it’s a short distance and then her husband is pulling her into him again, guiding her to a collection of boulders near the banks. He finds one large enough to sit on, settling back against an even larger boulder, worn smooth by the current and still radiating heat from the long-gone sun.

She floats over his lap as his hands trace up the curves of her calves, hooking her knees and pulling her further in. He waits until she gets proper purchase on the riverbed before releasing his hold, moving his hands to her hips to lower her back onto his cock.

She sinks slowly, giving a small sigh and feeling a small twinge—she’d been a bit too rough before, already feeling tender in ways that aren’t entirely pleasurable.

Still, she has a point to prove. She braces her hands on the rock behind him, giving a slow, experimental swivel of her hips. They’re in the shallows now, which means the water is at her hips instead of her chest, making it easier to actually control her movements. She pushes into him again, this time with more certainty, feeling a ripple of satisfaction for the way he shifts further up the rock.

While Calanthe certainly doesn’t mind having her husband pin her down, in this particular moment, she needs to be the one in control. She has a point to prove, a claim to lay. Eist has figured out that much by now, she can tell in the gentleness of his touch, how lightly his hands rest on her hips, helping but never directing, how tenderly he gazes up at her, so willing to let her take whatever she needs.

Her heart swells with love anew. Yes, she’s had lovers before him, even a husband before him. None have ever been able to give as much as they took, to see both sides of her nature’s coin and understand that both sides needed to be expressed and acknowledged and adored.

Her throat is too tight to voice these things (even if it wasn’t, she’s still not able to say them aloud, not yet), so she lets the message relay itself nonverbally. She lets her own expression soften, lets herself smile without lust or smugness or anything other than soft, breathless adoration. She rocks and swivels her hips in the pattern that always makes his whole body lift up, as if she’s tugging at his soul instead of his cock. She lets one hand leave the rock, tracing down the side of his face, outlining the neck and shoulders she loves so well. Her palm presses harder into the curve of his shoulder, as if pinning him in place. Even now, she can feel the strength, the restraint, the way he pushes into her touch, seeking more while never pushing past what she already gives.

Normally she would tell him to touch her, but this isn’t about her own release, not right now. She wants this man panting and begging for her, wants him coming undone inside her, wants the satisfaction of knowing she’s taken him to his element and taken him in his element, her man of salt and brine and lapping waves and calling gulls, weathered and able to survive any storm that life could blow his way.

She watches him intently, taking her cues from his nonverbal responses, picking up the pace when his breathing quickens, pushing down harder when his fingers flex into the softness of her hips. The water is sloshing around them, highlighting just how forcefully she’s taking him, and her heart surges with delight at the sound.

His face is tilting up to the sky, head pressing back against the rock. He’s so close, she can feel the tension building inside him like the swell of an incoming wave.

“Eyes on me,” she pants, smacking her hand back on the rock for further support. She pushes against the warm stone, funneling all of her strength and energy into her hips, nearly losing rhythm under the force of her thrusts.

He obeys, gaze locking onto hers with such intensity that she nearly startles, nearly loses the delicious tension she’s built. She presses her lips together and redoubles her efforts. Oh, she loves him, loves everything about him in this moment, from his sea-blue eyes to his strong and tender hands and his trust—she tries to push that feeling, that adoration into her muscles, tries to show with force all the tenderness she holds. The lines around his eyes soften and she knows he’s understood. She feels giddy, like bubbles of joy are rising in her lungs.

Eist uses every bit of self-restraint to keep his hands on her hips, to keep himself open and pliant. But it’s hard to do in the face of such a sight. She’s a mess, a glorious, somehow completely-in-control mess—loose wisps of hair plastered against her face and neck, breath ragged from exertion, chest and cheeks practically glowing with a deep red flush. The water is slapping against his ribs, pushed forward by her thrusts, and even in the darkness of the shadows, her eyes are burning like stars. Yes, if sirens were ever a thing, they would not be the soft and docile creatures of children’s tales. They’d be vengeful and burning, ravenous and righteous in their intent, like the woman currently atop him. He can feel the way her muscles clench around his cock, knows she’s just as ready to fall apart as he is, but her ironclad will keeps her from it, keeps her going until she’s sure that he has succumbed to her efforts. Her shoulders are taut and glistening, arms firmly planted on either side of his head. He can’t tear his eyes away from hers, but out of his periphery he catches the way her breasts are bouncing, knows how divine those tight nipples would feel beneath his teeth and tongue, just what sounds she would make, just how she would shudder at his attentions.

As soon as she’s gotten what she needs, he promises himself that he’ll do just that. The thought of making her come undone is what brings about his own undoing.

Calanthe is panting, laughing breathlessly at the way he shudders beneath her, continuing the pace for a few more thrusts before slowly swiveling her hips and sinking further down onto him, making sure she’s ridden every last shock of pleasure out of him. Her throat is raw and aching, the humidity of the night air too thick to make breathing heavily comfortable. She dips her head forward, lets it rest against his collarbone. She’d bite him, she thinks, if she wasn’t too busy trying to catch her breath.

Eist’s hands are strong and reassuring, sliding up her spine to her shoulder blades, gingerly lifting her up so that he can slip out of her. She gives a small sigh of relief—she feels raw and tender, but she can’t and won’t regret having him exactly like this. The rocks did a number on her knees as well, but she knows her husband will kiss them and cover them in salve when they return home.

Though that might be a while yet, she realizes. Eist is bringing her closer again, pulling her up to her feet—his seat on the rock leaves him at the perfect height to catch her left nipple between his teeth. The simple touch sends lightning through her body and she curls into him, even as she wants to pull back, to pull away from the over stimulation. He keeps his left arm firmly around her waist, holding her steady, as his right hand slips between her thighs, easily finding her clit. She shudders and groans again, head falling forward to plant kisses atop his mop of curls, fingers threading through them and pulling just enough to be felt. Her knees nearly buckle completely, but she straightens them again, desperate to stay exactly like this.

He bites again, this time devolving into a warm wash of tongue and lips as his finger presses harder against her clit. She loses her balance, hands slapping against the stone again to steady herself. She can feel his smile against her skin and she allows herself another breathless chuckle. She focuses on watching the easy ripple of his right shoulder, each movement directly linked to the pulsing pressure against her center. She can’t see his face, not without pulling him away from his very lovely efforts, and gods above she’d rather die than stop them now. So she aches with silent longing, closing her eyes to imagine his expression, the same ones she’s seen hundreds of times across hundreds of deliciously warm memories. Thinks of how he looked, just moments ago, the joy and relief and outright feral desire.

He doesn’t try slipping his fingers inside of her, and for that, she is grateful. Then again, he felt the almost-uncomfortable friction just as easily as she did, he understands how she’ll feel afterwards. Instead, he continues stroking, taking his time as he nips and sucks his way from one breast to the next. She shivers and shudders several times, each heavy, gusting set of sighs telling Eist that she’s that much closer to the edge. He feels her lips brushing over the top of his head, senseless whispers of kisses that become more distracted and frenetic. He moans in delight at the way she arches and presses further into him, knowing his sounds only encourage her to respond in kind.

Soon she’s shaking so violently that he almost loses his grip, pulling her in tighter as he continues his stroking, feeling immeasurable satisfaction at the way her body curls into him, melting down his chest, deeper into his hand, hips sinking back into the water. Her arms fully wrap around his shoulders as her forehead thumps against his cheek, so completely strung out that she has hardly any strength left in her body. Her breathing is sharp and heavy against his ear, punctuated by an occasional moan that only sets off more sparks in his own blood. He tilts his head slightly, kissing whatever part of her that he can reach—the shell of her ear, the spot where her jaw meets her neck, the curve of her shoulder, the side of her head as she rolls forward again. She gives one sharp, hard cry, hips juddering into his touch one last time before becoming practically boneless. She melts further into him, reassuringly heavy against his chest as she turns her head, cheek sticky with half-dried water and sweat as her breath continues gusting against his skin, ragged and hot.

He suddenly realizes that the rocks around them are uncomfortable as all hell. Still, he knows that she can’t move for a little while longer. So he sits back and endures, lightly tracing whorls on her back, smiling softly as the pads of his fingers find another small nick of a scar, another testament to the warrior she is and has always been and will always be.

“You know,” he says, finally able to catch his breath enough to speak. “I think with a few more lessons, you’ll be a rather decent swimmer.”

She sits up at that, her face drawn in a flat expression that betrays just how done she is with his bullshit.

“I thought I was perfection.” There’s a challenge in her tone, unmistakable.

“ _You_ are. Your swimming, on the other hand….” He trails off, letting her infer the rest as he places a light kiss on her forehead.

She harrumphs at that. Even if she knows it’s true.

“Well,” she sits up, gingerly rising to her feet. She’s still a bit unsteady, so he reaches up, offering his hand, which she takes. “Perhaps I should find a better instructor.”

“Nonsense.” He is unfazed by her threat, knowing it’s empty. After all, she isn’t even committed enough to use a teasing tone, much less an imperious one. “No one else would know how to handle your unique learning style.”

She gives a low chuckle at that, not denying the accusation. Instead, she pulls him to his feet as well, taking a moment to let her hand trail down his side, giving a small, satisfied hum as her gaze follows her fingertips. The water adds a sheen to his already glowing skin, making him look almost godlike. She thinks she could become rather devout, if her deity looked like this, wild dark hair and heartstopping blue eyes, flushed cheeks and strong chest. Yes, she’d starve herself to death worshipping this one.

The water is below their knees now, but they’re at the opposite bank. Calanthe looks across the water and suddenly feels the full weight of her exhaustion. Even her hair feels heavy, still in its intricate pattern, weighted down by the water trapped within the tightly braided chignon.

Eist’s hand lightly strokes the small of her back. “Come, I’ll carry you across.”

“You’re just as exhausted as I am,” she points out.

He merely arches his brow, “I think you were doing most of the work there, my queen.”

She ducks her head, silently conceding the point. She lets him lead her further into her river, lets him guide her so that her arms are around his neck, her front pressed into his back as he swims across. She feels the ripple of his shoulder blades against her breasts, the sinews flexing and pulling with each movement. She nuzzles the back of his neck, already feeling another surge of desire swelling in her chest.

“You’re a very strong swimmer,” she informs him, tone heavy with something far darker than mere admiration.

“Years of practice,” he returns easily, pretending not to notice her timbre or the impossibly tiny kiss she leaves on his neck, so light that he wonders if he was supposed to know she'd done it at all.

They reach a point shallow enough for her to easily walk to the bank, and they disengage, though she lets her hand trace down his spine appreciatively.

“Woman, we have an entire walk back to the castle,” he reminds her, almost chidingly. Not that he would ever actually bemoan the depth of her desire.

She merely hums, hanging back half a step to appreciate his retreating form. Gods above, he has the most biteable arse she’s ever witnessed. She points out, “All the more reason to take a rest before we begin our journey.”

He looks over his shoulder at her, smirking when he catches just where her gaze was focused. “Something tells me that particular interlude wouldn’t be that restful.”

She merely shrugs in feigned uncertainty. Theatrically, she raises her hands to her hair, fully aware of what it does to her breasts, turning her head slightly to highlight the line of her neck.

Eist could scream at this woman and just how perfectly she plays her cards, with such an air of unknowing nonchalance. She’s a consummate actress, when she wants to be. And an even more accomplished seductress, when she puts her mind to it.

She turns her gaze to him again, all feigned innocence as she gingerly removes a few hair pins, waterlogged braid swinging down with surprising force.

“It’s up to you, of course,” she offers, though they both know it’s a lie. As if either of them could ever think that he could be presented with this woman, with _that_ body, and make any other choice other than to stay and enjoy her to the fullest.

He looks up at the moon, and she realizes he’s calculating the hour. How long they can stay here, how long they can doze off before they need to wake and sneak back into the castle.

He leans down to grab a piece of clothing. She waits. He pulls up his cloak and she feels a surge of triumph. She knows his decision.

He moves slightly up the bank, back under the shade of the birch trees. He spreads his cloak out, not surprised to feel Calanthe’s hand slipping up the curve of his ass before rubbing a small, grateful circle on the small of his back. She’s holding her own cloak, to use as a coverlet of sorts.

He merely shakes his head with a light chuckle, too in love with how adorably triumphant she looks, in this moment. They lay down, ankles easily intertwining as their arms wrap around each other, pulling closer. She gathers her cloak around them and ducks her head, burrowing under his chin in a gesture of trust and safety that never fails to make his heart expand with affection.

“So,” she speaks up, after a long pause, her voice muffled against his bare chest. “More lessons, you say?”

He grins. “Yes, more. Many more.”

He can feel her grin in response. Even without seeing it, he knows it outshines the moon.


End file.
